I have angel figurines in my home: cute cherubs, faceless collectible angels, even a “forgetful” angel with a necklace of car keys and glasses on her nose and head. These were all gifts, usually given for special days. (Why did Denise give me the forgetful angel? I don’t remember.) Our Christmas tree never felt right until we got rid of the gaudy lighted star John chose and replaced it with my choice of a beautiful, lace-bedecked angel with, for some reason a wand. The treetop angel is as much like the one I grew up throwing tinsel at as I could find. As long as I’m happy, right?
And then there are the real angels. In the Bible, when an angel shows up, it’s always a male. And scary. The first thing out of his mouth is “Be not afraid.” Jesus, the Son of God, walked the earth and people flocked to see him. Angels show up and everyone cowers in terror.
Yet we persist in wearing doll-faced angel pins and dressing our daughters in winged white costumes for the annual Christmas pageant. As my daughter sometimes accuses me when I’m telling a funny—and always true!—story, never let the facts get in the way.
A friend of mine is comfortable only with the truth. He never passes on an email without checking the facts. He backs up his religious beliefs with Scripture, both chapter and verse.
Cute little cherubs with dried flower wreaths have no place in his world.
I’m more flexible. Pretty angels given when someone knows you’re going through a rough patch? Great! Silly angels with three pencils stuck in their hair? Perfect! A dollar store snow globe angel given by a grandchild? Best. Gift. Ever.
I love my little angel figurines. But if one of those big, scary angels ever shows up bearing a message from God, I’ll be down there on the floor, cringing and petrified, with everyone else.
You can bet your wings on it.